Things Left Unsaid
by Carrabasse953
Summary: John is only ever honest with Sherlock when he knows the detective can't hear him. Written for the Johnlock Gift Exchange on tumblr as a gift for amadrei. Mild slash and massive fluff.


_AN: This is written for the Johnlock Gift Exchange Challenge on tumblr as a gift for amadrei. The original prompt was "John caring for sick/injured Sherlock with kisses". _

_Disclaimer: I own nothing_

John is only ever completely honest with Sherlock when he knows the detective can't hear him. Like when he's immersed so deeply in his mind palace that a bomb could go off beside him without him noticing, or when he finally crashes after spending days without sleep while working on a case. That's when John says it. That's when he'll tell him the things that he'd never dare say in Sherlock's earshot but which he knows he must get out somehow or else he will explode. Not all these things are big and earth-shattering. Some of them are silly little things like "I think you look adorable in the deerstalker" and "Anderson isn't really that obnoxious once you get a few drinks in him". But then some of them are things like "I don't know what my life would be like without you" and "I love you".

It's the last one he has particular trouble with. He often finds himself hesitant to say it even when Sherlock is so deeply asleep that there is no power on this earth that would wake him. It's not exactly a mystery to him why it's so hard to say. Because really, it's pretty damn ridiculous. Him_,_ John Watson, _Three-Continents Watson_, in love with a man. And not just any man either. In love with his half-mad, married-to-his-work, possibly sociopathic flatmate. And yet, crazy as it is, when he sees Sherlock dashing about the flat, trying desperately to make John understand something that is apparently entirely _obvious_, he feels the sort of mad, heart-pounding rush in his chest that he hasn't felt since he was a teenager. And so John forces himself to say it; to get the feeling off his chest when he knows Sherlock can't hear him.

Only he'd never wanted to be able to say it in a situation like this.

He'd never wanted to see his flatmate lying in a hospital bed; unconscious and terrifyingly still. Never wanted to hear the beeping of countless different monitors filling up the room, tracking Sherlock's every heartbeat. He'd never wanted to sit in one of the stiff, uncomfortable chairs that seem to be unique to hospital rooms and feel everything he's never told Sherlock swell up so big inside him that he feels physically sick.

Because, yes, the doctors told him that it wasn't anything serious; that they'd operated on the ankle bone he'd fractured jumping off the roof away from the hit men on their trail. And they'd told him that now it was just a matter of waiting for Sherlock to come out of the anesthesia; but still, John can't shake the feeling of _what if_. _What if _Sherlock had been seriously injured? _What if _this wasn't a matter of simply waiting for him to come out of anesthesia but of seeing if he'd wake up at all? _What if _this really had been John's last chance to tell him?

So John screws up his courage, doing his best to dispel the worry that there's someone nearby to hear and judge him. He takes a deep breath. "I love you, Sherlock." He whispers. Somehow, though, the words don't give him the same release this time. He looks down at the detective's inert frame and still feels himself bursting with a love so powerful; he's not sure what to do about it.

It suddenly strikes John what he wants; what he feels like he needs to do to keep himself from exploding into a giant puddle of confusion, fear and – let's be honest – more than a little sexual frustration. John wants – God, he wants to touch him. Just wants to feel the Sherlock underneath his fingers, warm and breathing and _alive_. He reaches out his hand and places it awkwardly on Sherlock's shoulder. It feels wrong, touching him like this when the detective has no way of knowing what's happening. And really, now that John thinks about it, he can count on one hand the amount of times he's really touched Sherlock. Not just a quick brush of their fingers together as he hands him a pen, but a fully intentional, drawn out touch like this one.

It's strange how little Sherlock seems to like touching others or being touched. Especially considering how little regard he usually has for personal space. To John it seems a little backwards that Sherlock will happily stand with his face centimetres away from John's but balks at the idea of actually touching him. It seems to John like standing so close to someone that you are actually, honest to God, breathing the same air as them should be a more intimate act that idly setting your hand on someone's shoulder. And yet, sitting here with his fingers resting on Sherlock's bony shoulder feels like something in a class entirely apart from anything he's ever done before.

And so John keeps his hand there, each rise and fall of Sherlock's chest making him more and more sure that he can't keep going on like he has before. It had been hard enough keeping his feelings to himself before; but now that the accident has given him even the tiniest idea of what it would be like to lose Sherlock, John knows he has to tell him. He knows, and this knowledge terrifies him more than anything ever has.

He has no idea how to go about it. Sure, it's not like he's never confessed his feelings for someone before. But usually, the confessions go something along the lines of "Hey, I really like hanging out with you. We should get coffee sometime." John knows that telling Sherlock how he feels is going to need to go a lot deeper than that. If he's being honest with himself, John has never felt the way he does for Sherlock for anyone else.

He puzzles around with the words in his mind. He certainly doesn't possess Sherlock's massive intellect, but John knows he's always had a particular gift for turning a phrase. Especially when that phrase is "I love you". He's said those three words to so many different girls in so many different poetic ways that he could probably publish a book entitled _Saying I Love You with John Watson_. And yet, now that he's faced with saying the words and actually meaning them, he finds himself drawing a blank.

John supposes he could just say it straight, the same way he's said it countless times when Sherlock couldn't hear him. Just "I love you, Sherlock"; plain simple and heartfelt. The more he thinks about it, the more the idea grows on him. Because, what do the words really matter? It's not like the way he phrases it will affect whether Sherlock reciprocates. John glances down at the detective and feels his heart start to pound. He's really going to do this. Sure, John has made this decision several times before only to back out at the last second. But he can tell that it's different now. There's a sense of urgency that wasn't there before. A sense of "what if he were to die without ever knowing" that makes John more certain than he's ever been in his life.

Of course, there's still the potential for this to go horribly wrong. There is a very real possibility that Sherlock does not return the feeling. John's stomach churns as he thinks about what this confession could do to their friendship if it goes wrong. Would he have to move out of 221B? Oh God, where would he live then?

_Stop it, _John tells himself. He hasn't even told Sherlock yet. There's no point in panicking before he has a reason to. He'll tell Sherlock as soon as he wakes up, and then he'll move on from there.

As if on cue, Sherlock starts to stir. John's heart leaps up and settles somewhere around the back of his throat. The words "oh God, oh God, oh God" repeat themselves on a constant loop in his mind. This is it. There's no backing out now. Sherlock continues to stir, and finally his eyes open.

"John," He whispers, his voice hoarse.

"I'm here, Sherlock." John says. It takes all his strength to keep the words from tumbling out of his mouth right then and there. He knows he'll have to wait at least a few minutes before Sherlock will be able to carry on an intelligible conversation. Still, with the amount he's psyched himself up, he's tempted to just blurt it out immediately

It seems like years before the effects of the anesthesia wear off, and Sherlock returns to his regular self. John swallows. He has to do it now. If he doesn't tell Sherlock how he feels right this second, he probably never will. And he can't handle that. "Sherlock," He starts. The word comes out as an undignified squeak and John feels his face heat up. He clears his throat and starts again. "Sherlock, I need to tell you something."

"Yes, what is it, John?" Sherlock already sounds irritated. John would take this as a bad sign, but he knows that irritation is pretty much a constant state for Sherlock Holmes.

"I – I love you, Sherlock." Oh God, he's said it. Finally said it out loud, when Sherlock can actually hear him. No, there is absolutely no turning back now.

"John," Sherlock says. John is struck with a bolt of panic. Oh God, this is where Sherlock tells him that he's flattered but that he could never think about John that way. Or maybe not even that he's flattered. Maybe just that John is a truly despicable human being, and Sherlock would never consider entering into a romantic relationship with him. John has the sudden childish urge to clap his hands over his ears and run from the room so he doesn't have to hear what Sherlock's about to say.

"I'm sorry." John says, quickly. "I shouldn't have – It was inappropriate and…" John's not quite sure how he's planning on finishing that sentence. But luckily, Sherlock doesn't give him the chance.

"Oh, do shut up, John." Sherlock says with the smile he barely ever uses but which never fails to melt John's heart. Sherlock sits up in the bed and pulls John's face close to his. And then, incredibly shockingly wonderfully, Sherlock's lips are touching his. John's heart, beating at ten times its normal pace a second ago, seems to stop altogether. Everything stops. John is no longer aware of anything outside the miracle that is kissing Sherlock Holmes. John grabs the detective's shoulder – much more purposefully now than when Sherlock was still unconscious – and pulls him closer, deepening the kiss.

The tiny part of John's brain that is still functioning at full capacity pipes up and says that Sherlock didn't really give John an answer, that there is likely a long and uncomfortable conversation looming in their future. The rest of John's brain, the frenzied, blissed-out part, agrees that the logical part is probably correct, but then quickly bashes it into submission, leaving room for even more frenzy and bliss. John sighs against Sherlock's lips and for once takes a break from rationality and good sense. Rationality will likely come very much in handy in the near future, but for this moment – this single fleeting perfect moment – John steps back and just lets it happen. And oh, is it ever wonderful.


End file.
